


Thursday is Spursday

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Champions League, Europa League, First Kiss, M/M, Thursday - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2016-12-10
Packaged: 2018-09-07 15:32:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8806354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: Eric finds that 'home' isn't a fixed abode or sense of place. You carry home wherever you go, and you find flashes of comfort in unthought of places.





	

**Author's Note:**

> written for a prompt from [the ache in your legs: one more time with feeling ](http://small-weird.livejournal.com/519.html), because prompts are my crack. This story is based around the prompt 'Can I call you home?'
> 
> Shout out to king-goetze over there in tumblr, keeping me honest and making me redo *that* scene. You know the one.

**i**

If asked, where he calls home, Eric would alway say, "Portugal," hands down. Home is a place, lulled to sleep under the shade of the carob trees in the still heat, but wise enough to get out of the the glare. Sun browned by days spent along Praia da Arrifa. Home is sun splashed, so much that you have to avoid it, by getting out of its way. 

England in contrast, is where he lives. It also is cold; a wet chill that seeps into the bones, that’s never far away, no matter how many radiators you lean against, or layers you pile on. 

**ii**

Three sharp blasts of the whistle, a gasp of breath by thirty thousand supporters at the Lane, before the air is filled with the din of screaming voices. _We’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane, we’re the Park Lane, Tottenham..._

All around the stadium, the navy blue and white streamers with the cockerel standing proud greets his eyes. 

“We won,” Dele’s smile is loopy, cheeks flushed from exertion, eyes dazed as if half drunk. Eric feels it, the win flooding through his veins like alcohol. He drapes a hand across Dele’s shoulders, pulling him close, feeling the aftershocks of the adrenaline come down and heat pumping off his body.

“Yeah, Dell boy,” Eric said, pressing his lips against Dele’s forehead, because after all those draws, they needed a win, a statement. 

Manchester City now a prized scalp. “We won.”

**iii**

After their game away Monaco, on the plane the air is funereal. 

It doesn’t take a Mathematician to know that they aren’t going to make it through the Champions League group stages, and after all their efforts to get there… it's a bitter blow.

Wembley is a good stadium, but it isn’t _home_ , not like White Hart Lane. It’s expansive and the crowds are away from you, instead being of on top of you. Their cries and passion pushing you forward and up - _up_ , hemming the other team in. 

Wembley is an arena teaming with edgy hope and nervous energy. There’s the brittle air of the expectation that Tottenham will bottle, and they do. 

“ _As coisas andam feias_ ,” Eric mutters bitterly a day later on the training pitch, after the morning session is over. Everyone has filed inside after a terse team talk. Heads down, their kit bright against the leaden sky. 

Even Harry has called it a morning, leaving him and Dele behind on the green.

Dele raises an eyebrow in question, and Eric waves it off. It’s a reference from another life, another language. But it’s easy enough to find the words in English, because swear words in English are the property of every other language speaker. 

“We’re fucked.” Eric spits, voice acidic, looking out at the rest of the training fields, all uniform and carpet green, feeling his eyes burn. 

“This is where we say, ‘don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened’. Right?” 

Angry, face flushing, Eric rounds on Dele. “That’s not even funny. We’ve fought so hard to get here,” he continues, feeling his voice waver and nostrils burning. Refusing to blink because he might embarrass himself. “And when it comes to it we’re just…” 

_Tottenha-_

Dele saves him from himself; an arm around his shoulders, and Eric leans in, clings to Dele like a limpet on a rock, seeing the edges of the world shimmer through a veil of tears. 

“I w- wanted. A-a -after the Euros t- to-“

“We all wanted it,” Dele’s voice is quiet, soothing. Like a radio DJ on the night shift, ready to bring you down from your day, or pull you through it. His form solid and warm, like the furniture in the fabric of your life. “But wants don’t get, I guess.”

Eric swallows around the lump in his throat, his body thrumming with frustration. “We shouldn’t - it shouldn’t have ended like this.”

**iv**

“Europa,” Dele laughs, and it sounds as bittersweet as Eric feels. 

They’re stashed in a hotel near Wembley. 

After their press commitments, brief team talk and warm down, it was just easier. Two players to a room, and Dele and Eric sitting side by side at the edge of the bed. With the heating on, it’s comfortable enough to be in short sleeves, and barefoot. 

Pochettino demands lights out within half an hour of arriving, going to the extreme of confiscating their phones. Their next game is against Manchester United on Sunday and because Poch is hyper vigilant- and on just this side of barking- no phones in their rooms to be distracted by the lure of social media, keeping them up past the time they need to. Margins, everyone knows, Pochettino is all about margins. 

Their room is dim, but not ink black, due to the ambient light from the street lights outside. Wembley’s curving arch rises above the North Stand, glowing purple-white in the distance like one of Saturn’s rings. Quiet, save the low hum of the radiators, double glazing on the windows keeping the noise of traffic away. 

“Europa,” Eric repeats, seeing as Dele shakes his head, his expression similar to the one he had on the field after the game against CSKA Moscow earlier tonight. Classic Spurs, finally getting in form to win a CL match at Wembley, but coming up with dead rubber. 

Dele’s smirk nearer to a grimace, as he accepted the half hug of congratulations from Lloris on his inspired game, his eyebrows raising before beetling into a frown. 

“You did really well.”

“We won a game that didn’t count,” Dele rubs the corner of his eye with his knuckles. “We won at Wembley, great.” He does a golf clap in a way that can only be described as sarcastic. “But we parachute into Europa.”

“It’s not-” Eric starts, trying to put a spin on it, but honesty wins out. “It’s not ideal,” he finishes. “But it’s where we are.”

“Yeah,” Dele stretches his legs in front of him, ankles crossed. “It’s where we are.”

“You saved me from a bollocking, though,” Eric half laughed, thinking of Dele’s beautiful strike on goal in the thirty seventh minute. “Thanks.”

A shrug of shoulders, as Dele stares straight ahead in a stony silence. It’s been just over two seasons, and they know each other well enough now for Eric not to take offence. From both a professional and personal disappointment, their Champions League performance still stings. 

Especially since their North London rivals are now through the knockout stages at the top of their group. 

Still, it’s nice to have two wins on the trot. Being a footballer, you have to exercise selective memory losses. The complicated situations you got through, and put them out of your mind, but the wins... you had to hold on to the confidence and feelings of the win. 

They won tonight. In front of sixty two thousand at Wembley. 

Winning never got old, and sharing the win with Dele, well... that’s even better. 

“Dellboy,” Eric croons, mood bright, throwing his arm around Dele’s shoulders, leaning into him to rest their heads together. Dele’s physical resistance melting like a sugar cube in tea. It’s touch, another thing from home, where people are much more tactile, affection a lot more straightforward. Dele has always been open to being touched and soothed, to accept as well as reciprocate. 

“Mate, get off me,” Dele huffs, but he isn’t pulling away. 

“What, you’re too good for the likes of us now?” Eric teased, squeezing his shoulder. “You know the third goal was an own goal, right?”

“Wanker,” Dele sing-songs, keeping his voice low, and once they catch each other’s eye, they crack up. 

Somehow, when Dele leans into the hug, Eric shifts forward. Stumbles into the situation of the bridge of their noses touching, the mint of toothpaste on Dele’s breath a zephyr against his lips. A millisecond of indecision because they have been close to here before, only for Eric to take a step to the side. They have been okay since then, something never to be mentioned.

A smile ghosts across Dele’s mouth, and it isn’t the wry smile at the end of the CSKA Moscow match, nor the polite one after he and H deal with the press after the match, with the polite media trained answers all the way through the mix zone outside of the stadium players’ entrance. 

It’s something secret, and with a start, Eric knows he’s seen it before. 

Stunned when he realises that he’s been on the receiving end of that smile scores of times before. It’s tacit permission; a green light if Eric wants to _this_ to go ahead, but no pressure if he doesn’t, because either way it works for them. 

Eric feels his face flush, but not breaking the stare, and smiles back. 

It’s stupid, he knows, because he should be in a sulk, cursing his form and the fact that he actually was at fault for CSKA Moscow’s goal. He should be mentally going through the game play in his head, having answers at the ready for Pochettino’s match highlights the next time they met. He should- 

Eric feels as Dele makes to move away, his hand dropping from Eric’s waist. 

Decision made, Eric leans in, eyes sliding closed, sighs into Dele’s mouth. As first kisses go, it’s sweet, almost chaste; mouths a feather brush of pressure against each other. It’s like hitting the goal posts instead of the goal itself.

“That’s... nice,” Eric murmurs as they break away, but not too far, not with Dele’s fingers bunching Eric’s shirt, and the gleam in his eyes that means he’s totally focused on the task at hand. Eric has seen the look before, in training, when Pochettino issues a new challenge. Or when Dele’s going hell for leather in open play, threading through defenders, at the end of a diagonal pass from Toby to convert into a goal. 

Eric’s pulse spikes into touch, feels blood rushing to the surface of his skin under the weight of Dele’s stare. Every particle of his being hypersensitive to the atmosphere between them. If he’s wise, Eric realises seconds far too late, he should be scared, or at the very least, do his utmost to be careful. 

“Let’s try that again,” Dele grins, and it’s unguarded, wicked. A swathe of light in the shadows of the room. It’s what knocks Eric’s lingering sense of preservation into the long grass, makes him unable to resist as their faces draw closer. The press of Dele’s thumb dragging at his lip, fingers skimming the scruff of his face. 

It’s his hands on Dele, and they’ve touched each other before. Hugs at the end of games, Eric pressing his hand against Dele’s heart, feeling it fluttering underneath his palm, after training, after games. The texture of skin familiar because they’ve pressed their faces against each other for hugs and assurances. 

They’ve always been physically affectionate and open with each other, almost from the jump, but it’s a pale patch on what they do to each other now: it starts with their faces angling, mouths open and hot and wet. 

It's the first brush of tongue against the roof of his mouth and it’s electric. 

The world shrinks into nothing but snatches of senses. His back pressed into the mattress, his palm and fingers grasping for Dele's face against his, the chalky taste and tingle of spearmint from the hotel’s toothpaste on his tongue. Dele’s body against his is firm, banked heat and wiry muscle, their friction _delicious_ , his eyes sliding shut at Dele’s fingers tracing a path from ear to collar bone, chasing it up with open mouthed kisses. 

“ _Eric,_ ” and Dele really shouldn’t say his name like _that_ he thinks; hushed, desperate and full of feeling, because he likes it far too much. 

Dele’s forehead warmed with a sheen of sweat against his. The air close enough for him to wet flushed and swollen lips with his tongue, to rest his palm against Dele’s cheek, and says his name, “ _Dele_ ,” with the same emphasis. It doesn’t matter that he's given the game away, because they've always been honest with each other in the ways that count. 

Then, because it’s them, Eric isn’t surprised when Dele quips, “That’s a bit of alright, isn’t it?”

Eric knows his role in this, he’s the straight man in their double act. He tries to sober up, honestly, but his heart is too full, his senses too addled to stay on script. “I don’t know if I’m convinced,” he drawls, looking at Dele through lowered lashes. Taking in the planes of his face, his features narrow and fox-like, his eyes dark and soft. In the witching hour, it makes Eric bold enough to trace the line of Dele’s lower lip with his pointer finger, bold enough to say, “we should try again.”

Dele doesn’t answer. Well, not verbally anyway, their mouths meeting once more.

If the second time is better, the third time is diabolical in its charm. 

**v**

“Europa,” Dele threads their fingers together. 

They are lying in bed, heads close together, and by all rights, they should be asleep. Never mind half day of training tomorrow, because the gaffer won’t accept that as an excuse. 

Especially not them having conversation in between stolen kisses, and Eric steals one now. A nip at Dele’s lower lip, before soothing the pin prick of pressure away with his tongue. His laugh trapped in his throat as their kiss deepens, his skin flushed with warmth as if flooded by sunshine.

Wiggling his fingers free from Dele’s to palm his cheek, half dragging Dele on top of him, his body pressing into the mattress. A muffled moan as Dele’s fingers slides under his light top, thumb stroking along the pad of muscle along his hipbone, fingers ghosting along the band of his joggers.

Eric tears his mouth from Dele’s, scraping his teeth along the column of his neck and collarbone, feeling the frantic hammering of Dele’s heart against his chest. Greedily taking notes of the sounds Dele makes with each new touch. 

Like the fact that he’s _still_ ticklish even in these most carnal of things: snickering into Eric’s mouth as he trails his fingers along Dele’s ribs. . 

Or, another fact: his hair is alive and springy to the touch, and that - the rest of the thought evaporates as Dele’s teeth and tongue skim along his jaw. Half mad with gluttony, Eric draws Dele flush against him, fusing their lips for one more kiss. 

**vi**

“Europa,” Eric is the one who says it this time, and threads their fingers together. They’re sprawled across the bed, Dele half on top of him, their linked hands resting on Eric’s chest, the adrenaline of the night long gone, their blood cooled and pulse back to normal. Eric idly strokes the area from Dele’s wrist to the base of his thumb, the action already going from novelty to comfort. 

“Dele.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you... sorry that we’re in it?” 

It’s well known that English clubs and their supporters have no time for Europa, deriding the competition and its prize as a Mickey Mouse Cup. Europa is the younger, uglier sister to the sleeker, sexier Champions League trophy with its iconic anthem, and it’s another thing that makes England a bit home but not home. With the money the domestic league has, the clubs are sniffy about the Europa cup in a way the clubs on the continent aren’t. But then, there are a lot of things the English are standoffish about which differs from the rest of Europe. 

“It’s our sixth season,” Dele’s answer is a puff of breath across Eric’s chest. 

Eric idly traces the bony outline of Dele’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers, his bare skin warm and smooth to the touch. Yes, it is Tottenham’s sixth Europa league run. It’s an irrefutable fact, but not an answer. 

“It’s Pochettino’s third, with the club. Same for me,” Eric lobs the conversation back to Dele. It’s petty and a bit cantankerous, but Dele’s strong enough to take it. 

“Pulling rank, eh, Dier?” Dele’s voice is light, on this side of mocking. “My second.”

“And you didn’t answer the question,” they’re still a tangle of limbs, bodies limp as eels. The pillow under his cheek comfortably warm. Dele shifts, and Eric looks at him, Dele’s eyes big and dark in the dim light, his lips in a faint curve of amusement. 

“No, I’m not. Thursday is Spursday, right?” and the answer is sincere, despite its jocularity, Eric knows. “It’s European competition, and Lloris would have killed every one of us if we’d bottled it on top of everything else. Then look for a move in the January window.”

Now that they’ve won, and everything else that's just happened, Eric feels unbent enough to smile. “And Wembley isn’t a hoodoo, like the press says.”

“There’ll be other stories though, there always are. It will then, ‘Now can Spurs win the Europa League?’”

“Do you think we can?”

A humming silence that gives way to a gusty sigh. “I don’t know, mate. But... I want to have an honest go. I don’t want it to be like last year when we… Let’s put it this way, it’s the club’s sixth year in a row, we should have had it sorted by now. We just bloody well need to get on with it.”

It’s Dele’s inflection that does it, that makes Eric laugh. His utter tones of high dudgeon, teamed with the bloody mindedness that only the English can do when faced with complicated things of their own making. 

_Thursday is Spursday_ , half rhyming slang, half taunt from the other club supporters is as grating as much as familiar. White Hart Lane, with the Spurs’ supporters’ characteristic bitter humour turned in upon themselves. 

England is also Dele, who - the laugh stops in his throat.

Eric wonders when this happened, when his _Englishness_ stopped feeling so distant. The radiators do still exist, and it’s still bloody cold, thank you very much, and some sunshine wouldn’t go amiss, but he’s acquired other things in return. 

The fast friendship of H and Winks and the rest of the squad for one. 

Not to mention whatever _this_ is with Dele. 

Something indefinable - especially after tonight- but wholly sturdy and comfortable. 

“What?” Dele frowns, wiggling his fingers free from Eric’s unresisting ones. Eric’s eyes half closing as Dele’s fingers card through his hair. The movement gentle, each tug drifting him further into sleepiness. 

“Are you missing your curtains?”

“What ? No,” Eric pulls Dele closer against him. 

“You had this weird look on your face, like-”

“A man worried about a bad haircut?”

“You’ve had some dodgy ones, mate, to be fair.”

“Oi,” Eric made to protest, but it comes out more like a yawn, his words stumbling into each other, his eyelids heavy. “They’ve all been good ones.”

“Not all.”

“Sssh,” Eric presses his fingers against Dele’s lips, too tired to take notice of the faint aftershocks flickering across his skin with Dele’s teeth and tongue against the backs of his fingers. Too tired to argue over his barber's honour, at least, anyway. 

_Thursday’s Spursday_ flickers through his mind, but this time it’s in Dele’s voice, and instead of mocking, it’s a comfort. He also realises that Dele’s already off in the land of Nod, his breathing even, rhythmic. 

With great effort, Eric links their fingers together, even though it’s like moving on a muddy pitch, cumbersome and slow. But when their hands touch, it feels sweetly familiar, another home away from home. 

On that thought, he drifts off to sleep.

 

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

>   * Europa League used to be the UEFA cup, which was the one cup to rule them all ala Highlander. The competition used to be a favourite of the English clubs, Liverpool and Nottingham Forest coming to mind (don't you agree? Nottingham Forest are magic!). But then the Champions League over took the Europa cup in 1992 in terms of prestige, and Europa became the second tier cup. 
>   * In 2009 the Europa cup was overhauled, so instead of it being a straight knock out cup, it started to be played across two legs, becoming the competition that the English clubs loathe; because the FA doesn't really respect the fact that if you play on Thursday, you're going to be fatigued on Saturday, and games should ideally be on Mondays. Jose Mourinho has been bitter about the fact that the FA doesn't seem to give the teams in European competition a leg up in terms of better times to be played. Pochettino (Spurs' manager) joined the outcry in 2015 because Spurs had to play a Europa match on the Thursday before their cup final at Wembley to Chelsea three days later (Sunday).
>   * in 2015/16 in order to give all clubs across Europe a heightened interest in the cup they decided to make the winning team be a participant in the Champions League. This is seen as a carrot especially the English clubs, due to their profile to the international markets it makes sense to have the English clubs in the competition. That being said, the English clubs have to take it seriously due to the [UEFA coefficient](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/UEFA_coefficient), which affects how many teams make it to the Champions League (instead of 4, it will be 3 for the English teams if the Italian serie A overtake the english PL in the coefficient stakes )
>   * That being said, there's a [new Champions League format](http://www.skysports.com/football/news/11945/10539804/uefa-considers-changing-format-of-champions-league-in-favour-of-top-teams) afoot which comes in the 2018/19 season. The new UEFA President has vowed to give [the new format a look over because it benefits the bigger leagues over the smaller ones](https://www.theguardian.com/football/2016/sep/14/slovenian-federation-leader-aleksander-ceferin-elected-uefa-president)
>   * This is Tottenham Hotspur's sixth consecutive year in Europa League since 2010  When Pochettino came to the club, it was his first time managing Europa League and domestic competition. He's been on record saying that he doesn't like Europa, but his senior players do (namely Eriksen, Lloris, Alderweireld to name a few), and he tends to use Europa as a workshop to bring in fringe players to see if they understand his ideas (he introduced Kane, Mason, Dele, Onamah, Wimmer, Trippier and Winks into Europa before grafting them into starting places)
>   * Due to Europa being seen as a second tier Cup over here in England (in Europe, it's a valuable way for clubs to earn money but in the English League, the domestic product earns a LOT more money via TV rights), and Spurs are always in it, detractors actually do refer to Thursday as Spursday (Spurs' day) but the Spurs supporters have taken it on as a badge of honour than mockery in recent times.
>   * [Definition and examples of rhyming slang ](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Rhyming_slang)
> 

> 
> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] Thursday is Spursday](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13420437) by [Annapods](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Annapods/pseuds/Annapods)




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